Crusher by Niall Leonard Page B

Iron Bridge—who hadn’t? A seriously upmarket restaurant in Pimlico, right on the river, facing Battersea Power Station. It had had its own cookery series on TV a few years back, and its plain-speaking Geordie chef, Chris Eccles, was still a minor celebrity. McGovern had shares in that place? But James was wrinkling his nose.
    “Na,” he said. “Matey likes his staff to look like supermodels.”
    “Give him a bell,” said McGovern. James said nothing. “It’s the least we can do for our boy Finn,” went onMcGovern, and there was something so fake about his kindness that for the first time I felt chilled. He leaned forward again, fixed me with his blue-grey stare. “I’m a silent investor over there. I don’t tell Chris Eccles how to run his kitchen, but if I ask nicely he’ll find you something. Give James here your mobile number, he’ll call you in a day or two, tell you where to go, who to talk to, all right?”
    That was my cue. I recited my number to James, who tapped it into his phone, then I got up, clutching the plastic bag.
    “Thanks, Mr. McGovern. I’m really grateful. And I’m sorry about, you know, trespassing.”
    “Don’t let me see you round here again. And you keep this to yourself, OK? I don’t want every Tom, Dick and Harry climbing over my gates looking for work.”
    “Won’t say a word, I promise.” I shot him a big cheesy grin, but McGovern didn’t see it. He had taken out his wallet. Now he tugged out a few fifty-pound notes, folded them in his fingers and offered them to me.
    “Please, Mr. McGovern, I can’t, there’s no need.”
    “Fuck off, you already said you’re broke. This will keep you going till we sort you something out.” He stuffed the notes into the right-hand pocket of the tracksuit jacket.
    “Thanks,” I said. “And I’ll bring the tracksuit back.”
    “Forget it, it’s a gift. In fact, it looks better on you than it would have on me.”
    I headed for the door. “I hope little Kelly will be all right.”
    “He’ll be fine. Can’t say the same for Stephan, though.”
    “Stephan?”
    McGovern was grinning broadly. “Security. He was doing the front gates today. James is going to send him on a … what do you call it? Refresher course.”
    I didn’t want to think about the re-education Stephan had in store for him. But I figured that anyone who worked for the Guvnor would know the consequences of screwing up. And then I realized that “anyone” would soon include me.
    “Terry will drive you home.” The huge minder stepped forward.
    “That’s all right, I’ll take the Tube,” I said.
    “Terry’s my driver. He’ll drop you right at your door. I insist.” Of course, McGovern wanted to know where I lived. Did that mean he didn’t know already? He held out his hand again. “So long, Finn, and best of luck, yeah?”
    “Thanks, Guvnor.”
    I wasn’t sure McGovern actually cared for that nickname,but maybe he didn’t hear. He had already turned away to talk to James, and my view of them was blocked by the mountain that was Terry. I took the hint, gathered up my soggy clothes, stuffed them into the plastic bag and followed Terry meekly towards the carport.
    Terry drove me home in one of those four-wheel-drive tanks wealthy London mums use to shuttle their kids about, protected from the riff-raff by two tonnes of steel and leather and tinted glass. The ride was so smooth and silent Terry could have run over a motorbike without my noticing, I thought. Maybe he already had. I was perched in the back while the driver’s seat creaked under his massive bulk. He drove without a word, not cursing the traffic, not looking at me in the rear-view mirror, not listening to music or any radio station. I glanced at the rear of his massive shaved head, wondering how much he overheard about his boss’s business. A hands-free headset plugged into his ear flashed a blue light every few seconds. I would have thought a car this flash would have a hands-free